


It's You, You're All I See

by captain_murica



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Drunk Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, House Party, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, crowley's in denial, hastur is a little shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-24 03:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19714927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_murica/pseuds/captain_murica
Summary: Crowley's trying his hardest to enjoy Anathema's party when Hastur proposes a dare. Twenty pounds is twenty pounds, after all, and it's not like Crowley is entirely against the challenge.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first Good Omens fic so please let me know what you think, don't hold back... Any feedback is appreciated :)   
> I've been on hiatus on AO3 for a while and I thought I'd come back with something new because hopefully my style's improved, we'll see... I'm a bit nervous as the book and the show mean a lot to me and these characters are weirdly important to me - I can't really explain it, but I'm sure someone gets what I mean. Anyway, this fic is based on a classic dare/bet kind of trope, and I thought I'd play around with it a little. I hope you enjoy it!

“Go on, it’ll be funny.” Hastur’s eyes darkened. A rare smile tugged maliciously at his lips. “Just do it. Kiss him.”

“Alright, seriously - what the _hell’s_ going on? You don’t do jokes, you _hate_ jokes.” This was mostly true – Hastur couldn’t stand any kind of humour unless its sole purpose was to hurt somebody’s feelings – but Crowley’s main motivation for asking was simply to stall for time. He did not want to do this at all, even with the rather extraordinary amount of alcohol in his bloodstream. “Besides, I’ll become a bloody laughing stock. _Look_ at him.”

The damned angel was sitting alone in the corner, clutching a cup in both hands. His fingers tapped against each other and shuffled up and down the plastic; he looked as though he was humming to himself, like he was pretending he was anywhere but there. Probably for the best, Crowley thought. He wasn’t exactly _dressed_ for the occasion: from the top of his unruly blonde curls down to the smart brown Oxfords on his feet, he looked more like he belonged in the bloody library.

Which he _did._ He didn’t know why Aziraphale bothered to show up – or how he’d even been invited. It pissed him off. He looked so _stupidly_ out of place, wearing that damned deer-in-the-headlights look every time somebody passed by, reluctantly sipping some kind of alcohol (probably the weakest cider Anathema could’ve obtained, knowing him) from his cup and grimacing once he finally swallowed it. Crowley rolled his eyes.

Everything about Aziraphale set him on edge. There was something so _good_ about him, so sweet and trusting and naïve. It was something Crowley couldn’t understand. He was a classic geek. It was practically his birth right to be picked on by bullies everywhere. And yet he still regarded everyone with warmth and kindness and… _love._

He shivered at the thought. Not a shudder, a shiver – there’s quite a difference, you see.

“Look. I’ll give you twenty quid if you kiss him. How’s that?” Hastur smiled a tight-lipped smile. Ligur and Dagon and Bub jeered and shoved him around. Crowley shrugged them off with a scowl on his face that would have terrified most people into submission, but not his mates. They _did_ subside, but the unsubtle looks and occasional muttered comments continued. “Twenty quid. Worth your while.”

It really wasn’t. Twenty pounds was really nothing compared to what he had tucked away in his savings account. But they weren’t going to shut up, and maybe he could do his good deed for the day by giving that poor idiot in the corner an out, away from this stupid party. Even as his friends drunkenly nudged him over in the right direction, he could see Aziraphale making a rather halfhearted attempt to dance along with the music. He barely tapped his foot along on time with the bass that led the song. People walked past him like he didn’t exist.

Crowley’s chest ached at the sight of him. It ached considerably more than it should have done – in fact, it shouldn’t have ached at all. It was stupid – _he_ was stupid, for crying out loud, feeling sorry for a boy who should’ve known not to show up at a party if it wasn’t his fucking scene.

Crowley snarled, reached the nearest cup and drained it of its contents in three large, painful gulps. Vodka and the tiniest amount of lemonade dripped down his chin; he wiped it away with the back of his hand. His friends smiled at him, but there was no real warmth to any of their faces. Their eyes were glazed with inebriation and their mouths were crazed with whatever sick thrill they got from targeting people like that bloody angel standing on the other side of the room.

“Fuck it,” Crowley hissed. His brow furrowed over the top of his sunglasses. “Right then. Twenty pounds.”

“Twenty pounds,” Hastur said. But Crowley was already pushing past everybody before he could change his mind.


	2. Two

Aziraphale wasn’t having a _terrible_ time, exactly.

However, that didn’t mean he was having a particularly good night by any stretch of the imagination. Between Anathema and Newt totally abandoning him to do something he’d rather not think about them doing and the music being too loud and the alcohol in his stupid little cup tasting completely foul, he was starting to wish he had stayed at home. He was going to have words with Anathema in the morning – she _promised_ there would be wine, and all he could find was spirits. Vodka ran as smoothly down his throat as he imagined bleach probably would.

The poor boy – if you could call him a boy at eighteen – had been sitting in the same place for so long that the consequences of drinking were slightly lost on him. If somebody had asked him to walk in a straight line, he would quite possibly have taken a single step and listed far to the left or right. He felt a little more relaxed, but he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he didn’t belong.

“Oi. Angel.” That gruff, vaguely pissed-off voice brought him out of his introspective reverie.

He should have regarded him with caution. Crowley was bad news, after all, in every meaning of the phrase. But this was Aziraphale, a soft fool filled with warmth and compassion for most living creatures.

He was really very drunk too, which didn’t help his case in the slightest. So naturally, he beamed. “Crowley!”

Crowley blanched for a second, the bored and subtly hostile look on his face vanishing entirely. Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled in front of him, accentuated by the glare of an LED light in the dark. The smile he had reserved for him was so pure and excited that Crowley felt another stupid pang in his chest; he wished he’d brought a drink with him, for the love of all things vile and dreadful. Above the smell of alcohol and the cloying scent of hairspray and cheap deodorant that dominated the entire house, Crowley detected something else. Sharp. Sweet. Possibly expensive. He had to make the physical effort to stop himself from leaning in and smelling Aziraphale like a complete and utter weirdo.

_Fuck,_ he smelled good though.

“Fancy bumping into you here,” Aziraphale grinned. He found that the muscles in his face didn’t feel as tight anymore – he could smile and smile and smile and it wouldn’t feel forced. It didn’t even ache. Crowley raised a single eyebrow at the ecstatic face in front of him. His mouth threatened to betray a smile. “I didn’t know you were friends with Anathema.”

Crowley made a non-committal sound that gave absolutely nothing away. He looked rather fetching, Aziraphale thought absently, in his slim ( _very_ slim) fit jeans and leather jacket. Of course, his hair had been gelled into all sorts of shapes – he looked quite ridiculous, in an endearing sort of way, anyway – and he still wore the same sunglasses he sported everywhere else he went, even though all the rooms bar the kitchen were dark and the only lights anywhere else flashed all different colours in a matter of seconds.

“Hey, angel. Listen to me.” His words tumbled out of his mouth in a desperate blurt. 

“Hm?”

“Look. I’m gonna propose something to you, and you don’t have to say yes, but there’s money in it for you if you do.” Crowley watched as Aziraphale’s smile dithered a little, his face quickly dominated by confusion. He looked quite sweet, in that same doe-faced way. “It’s nothing bad. Mostly. Like I said, you don’t have to say yes. But I _will_ go splits with you if you do.”

“What is it, my dear?”

_My dear?_ Nobody had ever called Crowley that before. He couldn’t help but mentally stumble over the ‘my’ part in his head as he carried on speaking.

“It sounds bad, but just hear me out, okay?” he said, watching the other closely. Aziraphale nodded, closing his eyes contentedly. _Christ alive._ “Right. Well. Hastur dared me to kiss you for twenty pounds.”

Aziraphale’s eyes popped open. “He _what?”_

“Listen, listen, listen! It’s not that bad!” Some of Crowley’s cool demeanour had slipped away as he held his hands up to try and calm the angel down. Both of them were just as flustered as the other – Aziraphale sported pink cheeks and an almost affronted look, pierced with the faintest spark of panic in his eyes, while Crowley was flapping his hands in a frantic effort to get the former to listen to him. “Shshshshshshhhhh… Look, we can split the money, and since you haven’t cracked a bloody smile since you got here, I’ll even give you a lift home. How’s that?”

He had been drinking of course, but he suspected Aziraphale wouldn’t notice anything different. The boy was a little sloshed, after all.

“I _have_ cracked a smile,” he said indignantly. Crowley shot him a withering look, but tilted his head to one side as if asking a question. Aziraphale grinned again. “I smiled when you came over. And I’m smiling now. Would you look at that?”

“I’d rather not,” Crowley mumbled, his cheeks burning. “Are you up for the dare or not, angel?”

_“Crowley,_ we can’t,” he said. “I mean, what would everyone think? You’re one of the most popular people in our entire _school,_ and I’m a bloody library hermit – pardon my French.” He hiccupped. “You’d look absolutely ridiculous, and I’d look like quite the fool myself.”

The reason behind his reluctance struck Crowley square in the chest. He didn’t seem to even mind the actual _kissing_ part… It was the way they would look. He didn’t want to show Crowley up, embarrass him in front of everyone. The thought made his heart flutter and sink at the same time. _I’m going fucking soft,_ he thought wildly as he watched Aziraphale’s gaze fall to the floor. There was an indignant pout around the boy’s lips that he couldn’t quite get out of his head for a good while after.

“Besides… I can’t- I haven’t-” Aziraphale shrugged a little lamely. An embarrassed look washed over the soft edges of his face. “I’ve never kissed anybody before. Don’t tell.”

“Who am I gonna tell?” Crowley frowned. “Your secret’s safe with me, don’t worry.”

_Never? As in, never ever kissed someone? At all? How? What? Why?_ Crowley couldn’t help the fusillade of questions that fired in and out of his mind. Aziraphale might not have been the most popular boy in their year, not by a long shot, but there was nothing physically unattractive about him.

In fact, he was one of the most beautiful people Crowley had ever seen – not that he would have ever admitted that to anyone, not even if his life depended on it. He watched Aziraphale run a hand through his fluffy blonde curls and only just snatched back the smile that started to curl at the corners of his mouth.

“I don’t know about this.” Aziraphale’s words slurred together just a tad. “I’ve never done it before, and I don’t want it to be _bad,_ especially not with you.”

_What the hell did that mean??_

“Twenty pounds,” Crowley said. “We can split the money. Tenner each.” His face softened. Just a little. “And, like I said before, I’ll drive you home after. How’s that?”

“You’re _drunk,_ Crowley.”

“I’m not. Not over the limit, anyway.” That was a lie, but it was a small one, and one that Aziraphale would have preferred over the truth. In all honesty, Crowley considered himself a better driver drunk than sober; he was more paranoid about being pulled over when drunk, and so tended to stick to the rules of the road (most of the time, anyway). “I promise, I’ll make sure you get home safe.”

A long silence fell between them while Aziraphale considered his options. Music blared throughout the rest of the house, rising above the laughter and the drunken chattering and the occasional sound of a bottle breaking outside. Crowley watched the boy closely, drinking in the thoughtful lines etched into his face and the way he dragged his tongue slowly across his bottom lip (that was a real killer; Crowley had to look away for a moment to regain his composure). When he finally looked up and spoke again, the trashy pop song blasting from the living room had transitioned into a slightly less trashy pop song.

“Can we do it somewhere quieter? I don’t want it to be… here.” He gestured around. The air inside the house was warm and stuffy. Chains and lines of sweaty drunk bodies swarmed past every five minutes or so, and he hardly wanted his first kiss to happen while an over-rated boyband warbled away in the background. Crowley nodded. If Aziraphale hadn’t known any better, he would’ve thought he looked almost understanding.

His heart skipped a beat when the boy extended an arm and closed his long, thin fingers around his hand. Aziraphale fumbled with said hands until they were properly intertwined and stumbled to his feet, swaying a little at the change of pace. It was a good thing Crowley was holding onto him; he could have quite easily faceplanted at any given moment without the assistance.

“How many have you had?” Crowley asked. He sounded a little mocking, but the gentle smile on his face told Aziraphale otherwise. “A cider? Two ciders?”

“Um… A cup and a half of vodka, I suppose.” He gestured to his cup. “This is the other half.”

_“What?”_ Just in case he was lying, Crowley picked up the cup and gave it a suspicious sniff. The smell made his eyes water. “You’ve been drinking _neat vodka_ all night, and you’re still alive?”

Aziraphale shrugged, almost modestly. “I’m not a total lightweight, you know. I do drink wine. And it hasn’t really been all night. I’ve been pacing myself.”

“That is not how you pace. Nobody in the history of drinking has ever paced like that.” There was a slight resounding hiss as he said ‘pace’ both times, and a tighter grip on Aziraphale’s hand as he occasionally tripped over his own foot, but Crowley wasn’t angry, or annoyed, or upset in the slightest. Christ, he was _impressed._ Vodka was his own drink of choice, and though he didn’t mind swigging it neat from a bottle when the need arose, he much preferred it mixed with something or other - usually a nicer, fruitier alcoholic beverage. The fact that Aziraphale had finished off a whole cup of the stuff and was halfway through another was unfathomable. He hadn’t been sick, he hadn’t passed out, he just sat around and sipped half-heartedly at it as though he were drinking it out of politeness, or courtesy to the person who had offered it to him.

It was then that Crowley realised the boy holding onto his hand amazed him, in the most bizarre and curious way imaginable. He led the way to the garden with this revelation stuck firmly in his chest, letting it ache in the same way his heart did when he looked at the boy on his arm.

“Come on, let’s go outside.”


	3. Three

They escaped into the summer air, the music now only a faint racket coming from inside the house. A bunch of people lingered by the door, watching them with no real interest. Regardless of the popularity pyramid that existed at school, teenagers rarely gave a shit about such matters when they were nearing blackout drunk. Many of them never cared about it anyway, but it was one of those things that exists in such an intricate and subtle way that the careless and ignorant could still be affected by it nonetheless.

Aziraphale let himself be guided to the end of the garden, where Anathema’s patio ended and a long stretch of grass spanned out. There was a pond at the end of the garden – at another of these parties, Crowley had been dared to jump in, and had been given a rather severe telling off from Anathema herself after – that was mostly hidden by the darkness. He found himself not wanting anybody to see, not giving Hastur and the rest of them the satisfaction of watching something so… what, humiliating? Mortifying? He couldn’t put his finger on what he was trying to say until he glanced over at the boy beside him.

Aziraphale was gazing up at the sky in wonder, his pink lips slightly parted as he stared at the sky. His long eyelashes fluttered when he blinked, and the corners of his mouth lifted ever so gently into an amazed smile. Crowley squeezed his hand, and grinned when he heard the breath hitch in his throat. That was the point where he finally discovered the word he was looking for.

He couldn’t let his friends see something so _sacred._

The truth was, Crowley had been watching Aziraphale for quite some time. As much as he hated to admit it, he was practically _smitten_ with him – the thought almost made him cringe, since this was _Crowley_ we were talking about. He hadn’t even considered ‘smitten’ to be part of his vocabulary. Years of snide remarks and back-and-forth eye contact that left his heart burning and the occasional act of kindness had passed between them, years of denial and point-blank refusal because he didn’t _want_ to like this boy, but he just couldn’t help it.

And now here he was, standing in front of him and watching the summer night sky with all the awe and tenderness in the universe. Holding his hand.

Crowley couldn’t stop staring at his mouth.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Aziraphale breathed. Crowley’s lips parted in a dazed smile.

“Yeah,” he whispered. It wasn’t long before he caught what he’d said and what he was doing; he quickly rearranged his face into a picture of noncommittal disdain. “Well. It’s not bad, I suppose. Lot of stars and stuff.”

Aziraphale couldn’t have been listening too intently, for the only response he gave was a soft hum. A gentle quiet fell between them.

Crowley was only thinking of one thing, and that was the bet – more specifically, the part where his mouth was on Aziraphale’s mouth with his hands in Aziraphale’s hair and his body pressed tentatively against Aziraphale’s own. It would, in fact, have been much more accurate to say he was only thinking of the boy in front of him, but that was old news.

“Crowley, my dear, I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Why do you call me angel?” He turned to Crowley, whose face was perfectly blank. Aziraphale smiled again. “Nobody’s ever called me that before.” It sounded so lovely when Crowley said it, too; even in his harsher tones, there was always _something_ hiding under the snarls and hisses that made his head spin.

Crowley made a noise and shrugged. Aziraphale thought that was all he was going to get until:

“Well, you are a bit of an angel, aren’t you?” Something about the smug, almost cheeky sound of the _aren’t you?_ did something to Aziraphale’s stomach. He watched as Crowley circled around him, moving from his left to his right. “All blonde curls and shiny cheeks, holier-than-thou, love-thy-neighbour…” His breath tickled Aziraphale’s neck. “Just filled to the brim with kindness and love and compassion for everything that bloody moves.”

“For a moment that almost sounded like a compliment.” He glanced at Crowley as he returned within eyeshot.

“What if it was?” The impatience and the vodka were making him pretty reckless now. He took a bold step forward. “I’m not a nice person, but I’ll give credit where credit is due, angel. You’re just ethereal.”

“Ethereal.” Aziraphale smiled. His face shone. “Surely someone who’s not nice wouldn’t be saying such suspiciously nice things. Even if it _were_ ‘credit where credit is due’.”

Crowley edged closer again. He was smiling too, and this time he made no effort to hide it. “I meant it in the cruellest, most hurtful way imaginable. Promise.”

“No you didn’t.” If Aziraphale’s face got any softer it would have turned into a pile of goo. There was something in his eyes that gave Crowley the faintest impression that whatever was happening in his own brain wasn’t entirely one-sided. Alcohol does tend to give you better insight on these matters, and certified dumb-arse or not, he could feel the atmosphere between him and his angel shifting from something light and friendly to something heavier, almost totally uncharted.

“So, what we gonna do about this bet?” Crowley’s voice was so soft he could hardly hear it himself. A sober look briefly crossed Aziraphale’s face. He pulled at a thread on his sleeve and winced.

“I just don’t want it to be bad,” he said. “You’ve probably got loads of experience, and I haven’t got _any._ The closest I’ve ever been to kissing anyone is kissing my grandmother on the cheek when she comes to visit.”

“Angel, I don’t want to dwell on you kissing your grandma, or you kissing anyone else,” Crowley replied. “Or rather, you _not_ kissing anyone else.” He smiled crookedly. “It’s just like dancing, how’s that?”

“I don’t dance, either,” he mumbled. Crowley rolled his eyes.

“It’s not hard… I’ll lead, how’s that?” His hand reached out for Aziraphale’s.

“Um… okay.” His angel took a long, shaky breath and closed his eyes. A small smile graced his mouth. “Whenever you’re ready, my dear.”

Crowley’s heart jumped around like it was ready to burst out of his chest at any moment. _Alright. Fuck. FUCK. This is it._ Aziraphale stood there, just _waiting for him._ His lips were twitching – he couldn’t tell if nerves or impatience were to blame.

Time slowed as he took another step forward. One baby step. Another. _Shit. Fuck._

With trembling fingers, he cupped Aziraphale’s face in his hands. His skin was so warm, so soft to touch, that he couldn’t resist running his thumb along his cheek. They both shivered, and he felt a flush of heat run to the boy’s face.

_Fuck._

He leaned forward, and two remarkably strange and rather unlikely worlds _finally_ collided.

Aziraphale’s lips were even softer than his face. They were soft, and full, and clumsy in a flustered and inexperienced way that Crowley found inexplicably endearing. He tasted of sugar and _(spice and all things nice,_ Crowley thought, and almost smiled) ever so faintly of vodka, a taste which intoxicated the other boy in a way that made him feel as though all the stars in the sky had consumed him. Their noses brushed together a little, the soft curves and round edges of Aziraphale’s bumping against the sharp lines of Crowley’s in fantastic juxtaposition.

The kiss lasted forever, and yet when his angel backed away for air he immediately felt robbed. His hands still held his face and his fingers delicately ghosted across his skin. Aziraphale looked at him, past his glasses, past his flesh and blood and bone, and stared directly into his soul. When he smiled, Crowley felt whole.

“Was it worth the tenner?” Aziraphale’s voice was light, teasing, but there was that bite of anxiety poorly concealed behind his jaunty tone.

For a moment, Crowley didn’t even know what he was on about. It wasn’t even about the bloody dare anymore.

 _Bugger the dare_ , he thought. _It wasn’t about the stupid dare in the first place._

“Angel,” Crowley smiled, his voice slow and deliberate. “You can’t put a price on something like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Let me know if you liked this chapter, any feedback is welcomed of course... The next chapter will be a conclusion to the story, although I may possibly write a fifth chapter as an epilogue - I've had fun working with Teen!Crowley/Aziraphale though, so if you're interested in any more of this kinda stuff do tell! Cheers :D


	4. Four

It wasn’t long after that that Crowley swaggered on past his gang of miscreants and swiped the twenty pound note right out of Hastur’s hand. They all shared a knowing smile behind his back.

“I’ll be taking that, thank you,” he said coolly. There was a subtle spring in his step as he walked off, and even something in his voice that vibrated with each nonchalant word that fell from his mouth. His mates watched him saunter away, and grinned when they saw Aziraphale latch onto his arm. Hastur heard snippets of their conversation as they headed toward the door – he was pretty sure they were talking about _dancing,_ of all things.

Weird.

Weird... but wonderful.

 _“About. Bloody. Time,”_ Bub groaned.

“I can’t believe you actually did it,” Ligur said to Hastur. He almost looked proud. “I thought if any of us were gonna actually succeed, it would’ve been Dagon.”

Hastur shrugged, but there was already a smug look plastered over his face. “What can I say? The flash bastard never backs down from a challenge. I’m surprised I didn’t think of it sooner.”

He turned to the rest of them. His face brightened. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

The other three groaned and called him nearly all the names under the sun. It did nothing to dim his expression though – in fact, he was practically beaming as he held out his hands to each of them.

Ligur, Dagon and Bub reluctantly fished in their pockets and each pulled out a crumpled twenty pound note. Hastur crushed them in his fist and shoved them in his own pocket, chuckling rather sinisterly to himself.

“Crowley, you magnificent, lovesick bastard,” he smiled. “I owe you, big time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's it! Sorry if you expected the end chapter to be more Aziraphale/Crowley based, I'm thinking of writing an actual epilogue if anybody would be interested in reading it, just a couple months after the dare and where our fave pair find themselves...  
> Anyway, thank you for reading this far! If you enjoyed this story, do let me know, and if you didn't, do tell me what I can improve! Any feedback is always appreciated my dears :D
> 
> Also yes, in this fic the demons ship it because they're dicks but they're not DICKS, y'know?


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is actually it now! I liked the way the fic ended but it didn't feel like it had enough focus on Aziraphale and Crowley, so I thought I'd write a snippet about where they ended up after the party.   
> A massive thank you to everybody who's given this a read, and left kudos, and dropped a comment - it's so encouraging, and so supportive, and I know I sound like a broken record but seriously, thank you :D

“It’s quite interesting, you know,” Aziraphale said, tapping anxiously at a plastic cup of pink lemonade. Crowley, who was reclining along the tartan blanket spread along the ground, moved his arm away from his eyes and gave his angel a _look._ His sunglasses had been neatly folded by his side; it was rare that he wore them around Aziraphale these days, but it was _incredibly_ sunny, and he still thought he looked cool in them, so why not? A set of eyes, one brown, one green, watched the blonde boy expectantly. “We’ve been _associating_ for quite some time now. But, well… As far as official names and titles and whatnot go, we’re still – _technically_ – just friends.”

“What are you banging on about?”

A light flush coloured Aziraphale’s face. “I… I don’t know how else to say it.”

Crowley’s hand stretched out and filled the gaps between Aziraphale’s fingers. He almost smiled. “Take your time, angel.”

“Well.” He cleared his throat. “What I’m trying to say is, well. We’ve been, um, _talking_ for quite a long time – romantically speaking, I mean, unless I’ve completely got the wrong end of the stick here, which would be very unfortunate but I’m confident I haven’t this time – this is all completely beside the point, sorry my dear-”

Crowley watched on, his smile growing wider as Aziraphale’s face grew pinker and pinker.

“You see, if I’m right, and that _is_ the case, then that’s absolutely fantastic! But… by a more conventional meaning, I suppose… We aren’t actually official, even if we _are_ exclusive.” At the sound of his own words, a horrified squeak fell from his mouth. Crowley had never seen him so worked up, and Aziraphale was quite easily the most worked up person he knew. “I’m not saying we’re both exclusive! I mean, I am, because I’m not all that fond of anybody else, but it’s okay if you-”

“I am exclusively _yours,_ angel,” Crowley grinned. He sat upright and pressed his palm gently against Aziraphale’s cheek. He seemed to calm a little at that, and watched Crowley through a hopeful film of tears in his eyes. “Oi, none of that crying malarkey. We’ve always been exclusive, right from the start. Even if you didn’t know it.” They shared a laugh at that, and Crowley pressed a light kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead because the poor boy still looked like he was about to faint. His grin turned into a wry smirk. “I mean, I’ll be honest, I thought we were already going out. Didn’t think I needed to ask, or anything. It just happened.”

From the look on Aziraphale’s face, Crowley figured this was something that hadn’t occurred to him in the slightest.

“Oh,” was all he said, in the softest, gentlest way imaginable. He chuckled. “Well. I look rather silly now, don’t I?”

“Not at all,” Crowley replied. “In fact, now that I’ve got the opportunity to actually do it properly, I might as well, mightn’t I?”

Aziraphale’s face brightened. He was, after all, the soppiest git Crowley had ever laid eyes upon, and quite happily lapped up anything remotely romantic when given the opportunity to do so. He sat a little straighter, fussed about with his bow-tie (yes, even though they were done with school he _still bloody wore them)_ and watched his not-yet-boyfriend with a sparkle in his eyes that reminded aforementioned not-yet-boyfriend of the night they set everything into motion. With a small, nearly cheeky smile, he nodded, signalling Crowley to pop a pretty important question.

“Aziraphale,” he began, drinking in the fluffy curls on top of the boy’s head, the twinkling eyes, the ill-concealed ecstasy around his mouth and absently wondering how he managed to get so lucky, “Will you be my boyfriend?”

His words were perfectly accompanied by the brightest mega-watt grin Aziraphale had ever seen in his life. Crowley was looking at him in the same way people looked at masterpieces in an art gallery – eyes of awe, and wonder, and some strange and tender understanding. His smile put the sun to shame; nothing had ever made him smile until his face hurt before, and he felt rather sure nothing ever would again.

“You know,” Aziraphale said slowly, using every last fibre of self-control in his body to stop himself from leaping on the boy in front of him, “I think I will.”

They shared another smile, the sort they reserved _exclusively_ for each other, and lent in for a kiss.

Aziraphale had rapidly improved in that department. He insisted it was Crowley’s teaching, but Crowley was certain Aziraphale was an infuriatingly fast learner.

It was August, nearly five months after Hastur’s dare had taken place, and the pair of them were kissing slap-bang in the middle of St. James’s Park with a tenderness that was rather comforting amid the lifeless bustle of the city.

Neither of them went big on PDA, but this was a rather big milestone – the first, they were sure, of many - and so an exception was only necessary.


End file.
